


To Pay and To Purloin

by Star_flaming



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Competent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Curses, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Curses, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, First Time, In a very roundabout way, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, but like a very non-explicit first time, more along the lines of what they let you read in high school, rating to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24267364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_flaming/pseuds/Star_flaming
Summary: The town of Dalnacreich had a curse upon its wells, and Geralt was more than confident he could get the Good Neighbor who lay it to remove it in turn. As to the price he must pay, that was a little more up in the air, and not for lack of Jaskier's attempts to pin it down.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 308





	To Pay and To Purloin

**Author's Note:**

> This was born from the thought that to go fishing for a djinn and risk being turned into Sleeping Witcher, Geralt would have to be either A) really REALLY exhausted, or B) really REALLY confident in his ability to word wishes when not under pressure so they don't kick back and cause more harm than good. Or maybe even both.
> 
> I honestly don't even know if this is explicit enough to require a mature rating, this is uncharted water for me. I'm just closing my eyes slapping at my keyboard going "I'm ace why am I writing sex this is so uncomfy." But these two knuckleheads canonically enjoy it a lot so...here we are.

“What…uh, what’s going on?” asked Jaskier, looking around the little attic room they had let in the town that was dealing with a curse on its wells. Dalnacreich had grown moderately famous in the area for its waters of miraculous healing, people with any number of ailments came to drink and be healed, others came riding to collect water to save those too ill travel. But now, those who had drunk its waters were being struck down to near death by things so paltry as a common cold. Someone had cursed their waters, and were offering a hefty payment for the breaking of it.

And Geralt had asked around about monsters, but none had been seen. He asked about before the water’s powers had been revealed, but Dalnacreich had always laid its dead to rest respectfully and wasn’t near any stagnant bodies of water, so no one could recall any particular monsters _then_ either. And then he went walking, searching for signs in the woods the hugged the western side of the town, a tracking mission even Jaskier could not summon excitement for, so while Geralt was gone, he had gone to the mayor and tried to get some idea of when people started to suffer childhood illnesses a second time and worse this time around. Apparently, the water was making it as though the drinker had never been ill, to the point of erasing the body’s memory of having _ever_ been sick with _anything._

Jaskier had then trotted briskly over to sing in the tavern to cheer himself up from _that_ conversation, as well as to raise the spirits of those who had had to walk miles and miles to collect water from the nearest possible river for that day’s ration for the town.

And when he came back to the room, Geralt had _plastered_ the walls and _carpeted_ the ground with scribbled on pieces of bark strip, more than a few tablets and chalk, parchment even. It looked like the dormitories of Oxenfurt during examination time, when everyone was frantically trying to remember or even learn the things they were to be tested on.

“It’s not a curse, it’s a wish,” said Geralt, not looking up from where he was working, scribbling away at another strip of bark. “A child asked the fae to cure his mother.”

“And…that requires all this? Really, Geralt, it looks more like I’ve been struggling with writing lyrics than anything you might do. Thought you’d take those two scary swords of yours and go stomping into the forest.”

The look Geralt levelled him with would have levelled mountains. Good thing Jaskier was made of sterner stuff.

“You don’t _fight_ the fae. You _treat_ with them, and they’re trickier than djinns.”

Jaskier picked up the tablet that lay closest to Geralt and looked it over. Geralt had…very particular handwriting. It was the script of someone who rarely wrote at all, chicken scratch almost as bad as a child holding the stylus in a fist, even though he could see the man was holding the pen correctly. So it took a moment to pry apart the letters into words.

_I can make it so the water in your town wipes away all illness._

“Is this what that particular Neighbor of Dalnacreich promised?” he asked.

“Hmm.”

“Well, it certainly looks harmless enough.”

“That’s the point.”

“So you have a plan? To get them to undo it?”

“Mostly. That’s what this is.” A hand waved to the mess about them. “The fae will follow the word, not the spirit of the things they say and promise. So when you treat with them, you have to catch the spirit in the word.”

“And why aren’t you asking _me_ to help?” asked Jaskier, almost offended. “Geralt, this is _wordplay,_ this is my _job._ Let’s go to the woods, I can dance a jig with them and keep pace.”

Geralt’s expression was dangerous and sharp as he said, “You don’t know that, and anyone who _can_ keep up they tend to abduct.”

“What about you?”

“They don’t want Witchers. We aren’t amusing enough.” Jaskier couldn’t really argue that – he might love Geralt dearly, but he really wasn’t the classical definition of _amusing._ Instead, he picked up a discarded piece of parchment, covered over with variations of the same thing and read through them.

_The child requested a cure for a single illness._

_The child requested a single cure for a single illness._

_The child requested a one-time cure for a specific human’s specific illness._

He was planning out how not to get caught in loopholes that the fae could play merry havoc with. And…he was doing a better job than Jaskier would have. He had been ready to go running out into the forest and start tossing around words like it was one of those spats he got into whenever he laid eyes on Valdo Marx, but Geralt was putting a _lot_ of thought into it.

“Do Witchers get taught how to do this?” he asked idly.

“Yes,” said Geralt, studying his most recent wordings.

“What, really?”

“Yes. Why do you think I was willing to go fishing for a djinn? I knew how to word my wishes. Things only went to shit because we thought _you_ had the wishes.”

“Huh.”

That made a lot of sense, actually. He had thought going to a djinn for insomnia had been a little extreme, but maybe not, given the level of planning he was doing. Each piece of parchment, each slate, each strip of bark was covered in phrasings, not all of the same thing. Some were discussions of why the gift was a curse, some were greetings of all things, some were terms that were carefully written to have no loopholes whatsoever.

“Wait, you’re going to get them to _leave_ the curse?” he asked, looking at his friend. “The thing that’s killing people?”

Geralt turned to him, looking more than a little fed up with being constantly interrupted, but he still said, “That’s the first offering. If I start with asking it to leave the enchantment but remove the harmful aspect, then when I ask it to remove the whole enchantment, it’s going to be a concession and if I’ve given up what I first ask, it’s going to be more likely to accept it.”

“You’ve…really thought this through.”

“Of course I have, they’re the fae, they’ll tear your life apart and laugh. But they can’t lie and they can’t break their word, so you have to play their fucking word games.”

Jaskier looked around the room at the vast preparation for those selfsame word games and asked, “Can I help?”

They spent the rest of the day putting together sentences that offered no paths for the Good Neighbors of Dalnacreich to lead them down. Ambiguity of his name, his profession, of on whose account he had come, naming himself but giving no name to steal. He was treating on behalf of another but it was his word that stood and onto his head all price and payment should be made. He was explaining what the first request was meant to be and wished to honor the agreement, and modify the terms if necessary.

All of it was coming from Geralt, who knew each and every trick that was likely to be played. Jaskier might offer a phrasing he thought was solid, but Geralt would shake his head and point out four different ways he knew from experience that it might be twisted.

“Why aren’t you offering payment?” asked Jaskier eventually. “You’re leaving it entirely up to them.”

“Of course. I was taught how treat with them, I’m already taking away their game. If I take away their chance to play one last trick at payment, they’ll simply refuse and disappear and leave Dalnacreich to its curse.”

“But they could demand anything! Why not make an offer?”

Geralt gave him that look he sometimes did when Jaskier said something very wrong about monsters or, apparently, the Fair Folk. “They’ll be angry enough as it is. If I make an offer, it needs to be as solid as the rest of it or they’ll twist it. You have to let them propose a price. It’s just how things work with them.”

This was close to as chatty as Geralt ever got, talking about monsters and how to deal with them, and considering the way he’d be dealing with this particular contract was by talking, it seemed he was whetting his words like a blade.

They worked late into the night, until Jaskier was yawning and listing towards sleep against Geralt’s shoulder. The man in question nudged him awake and shepherded him off towards bed, helping untie the little ties that were too difficult in his sleep-muddled state and helping pour him into bed. Jaskier fell asleep to the sound of Geralt’s pen still scratching.

The next day, Geralt was still obsessing over the words, and taking short breaks to meditate here and there, because apparently he was to go treat with the fae that night, and expected to be up all night doing so.

“Well, I suppose I should take a nap myself,” commented Jaskier. “Or else I’ll fall asleep.”

“You aren’t coming,” said Geralt, his tone icy.

“Well, I don’t plan to be trying to treat next to you or anything, but–”

“No. You aren’t coming.”

“Oh come on, Geralt. We do this every time. You say I’m not coming, I come anyway, I’m not nearly as in the way as you think I’m going to be, I write a song about it!”

“Monsters are one thing, fae can be willfully malicious. You aren’t coming.”

“I’ll stay back! I’ll watch from a distance!” Like hell Jaskier was missing this – the Witcher treating with the fae on the behalf of a child? What a ballad it would make! He could stay quiet and at a distance, no matter what Geralt seemed to think.

“There is no safe distance when it comes to the fae, Jaskier. They’ll know you’re there, and know that you came with me, the woods are _their_ territory. If you came with me, you’re part of negotiations. They may demand your voice as payment to lift the curse, or the color of your eyes, the ability to play your lute, and I cannot ask you to pay those prices.”

"What about what they'll ask of you?"

"I know what sort of things they ask of Witchers, and I am willing. But I can't ask it of you."

It was times like that that made it so very hard not to just kiss the man in front of him, when he was so damn noble. But Jaskier knew better than to ever even _try_ doing that; much as he wanted to, Geralt had never seemed to show interest, and contrary to belief he knew what limits could be tested and what should be left alone. So instead of kissing Geralt, he just sighed and said, “Then I’ll wait at the edge of town, I guess. But you owe me all the details.”

“It’s just a lot of talking, Jaskier, you of all people should know about that,” said Geralt, but there was relief in his tone, enough that there would probably be one or two extra details in there.

“Well, I do have a lot of the raw material for your lines in the ballad here.” He gestured to the room around them, and dodged the half-serious swat in his direction with a laugh.

It was at sunset after a full day of planning and practicing sentences that Geralt set off, to be in the woods by twilight proper, and Jaskier found an obliging fence to perch on near the edge of town, and settled to wait, watching the gloaming hum at the edge of the sky before night proper fell.

Fences were fine and well enough for short stints of idling time away on, but they soon grew uncomfortable, and he found himself pacing for a time to stay awake as well as waiting on the fence, listening intently to the night around him.

Dalnacreich had no recent history of monsters, so he didn’t need to fear that, and the people didn’t seem especially worrisome, but there was still some thread of threat to the night. And that was because the Fair Folk were about that night, and the fate of this town lay in their capricious hands. Normally, Jaskier would sing into the night to dispel the fear, but not that night.

It was as like to sailors who refused to whistle for fear of challenging the wind itself, or near enough. If he sang in this night, there might be an ear that would listen and ask, “Might I have a song from you?” and suddenly he wouldn’t be able to ever remember one of his own compositions, even if he read his songbook and read along the musical notation he had written.

Deprived of song for the night, he found his amusement other ways, plucking long strands of grass the moon helpfully illuminated for him and began to plait them, finding more and more pieces as he began to run out. His length of grass was beginning to measure the night as he worked, listening for Geralt’s return and worrying that the town’s Good Neighbors might have to come _into town_ to undo the curse. _If_ Geralt could convince them to do it at all.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Finally, the birds began to sing their dawn chorus, and Jaskier, halfway to dozing against the fencepost, shook himself awake and got to his feet. Geralt would be back soon. He hoped. Unless something had gone wrong, but thinking back to their attic room, it was more than likely that he was more than prepared. He’d be fine.

The sun began to lighten the eastern sky not long after the first birds began to sing, and behind him in town, Jaskier could hear the earliest risers beginning their day. The baker would be stoking up the ovens now, he could just imagine he smelled the bread.

Distantly he could hear roosters crowing at the sun and back and forth at each other from pen to pen, the usual sounds of town and of the day beginning. But he was too busy watching for Geralt.

Finally, finally, the Witcher himself came walking out of the forest. He looked tired, but no worse for wear. Had it worked?

“Geralt!” he called, jogging over to meet him. “How did it go?”

Geralt was looking at him oddly, though. Just staring at him. A bolt of fear shot through Jaskier at that – had the particular Neighbor claimed the Law of Surprise as payment for lifting the curse of the wells? Had he just tithed himself to a Fae Court? But no, that was a human law, wasn’t it?

“Geralt? Is everything alright?”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“Hmm.” A pinched expression crossed his face, and he strode past him, walking quickly.

“Whoa, hey, wait for me!” protested Jaskier. “Really, I wait for you all night, least you could do would be to tell me how things went! You promised me the details!”

“Spoke to them, treated all night. They agreed to lift the curse. The water’s normal, now.”

“That isn’t details!”

Geralt was distant, even as they went to speak to the mayor of the small town to tell him the curse was lifted at the price of losing the water’s magic. There was another price, Jaskier was certain, unless Geralt had managed to convince those he treated with in the night that to lose the magic was a great enough price as it was.

The mayor wasn’t _happy_ about losing the miraculous powers of the water, but it was better that than having to walk miles to the river each day to bring back the town’s daily ration, for man and beast alike. At least now they could draw from their own wells to water their oxen. He made an announcement to those he could gather at such short notice, and by the time that they finished cleaning their attic room of the coating of words, Jaskier was asleep on his feet, and the town was heralding Geralt as their hero.

“Mm, they wouldn’t be doing that if not for me,” murmured Jaskier, fighting to keep his eyes open. “You’re welcome.”

“Hmm. We’re leaving.”

“Can’t I take a nap first?” And yes, okay, he was whining, but he had stayed awake all night waiting for Geralt’s return and he was just human, he wasn’t able to go days at a time without sleep like Geralt could.

Geralt did not answer, and off they went, leaving Dalnacreich behind them. Jaskier, for his part, had to focus on each step, just one step at a time, and couldn’t even talk, too focused on staying awake. _That,_ at least, Geralt seemed to notice.

They stopped for a rest a few miles out from Dalnacreich, in a fallow field the road wound by, Roach enjoying the patches of clover and wildflowers, Geralt obsessing over some potion or another, and Jaskier laying down and immediately falling deeply asleep.

It must have been an hour or so later that he was woken by Geralt touching his shoulder and calling his name, that pinched expression back on his face as he did. “If you sleep now, you’ll be awake all night tonight,” he warned.

“True,” admitted Jaskier, much as he hated it, because he just wanted to _sleep._ Still, he pushed himself up and got to his feet, ready to keep going.

It was another mile before he felt really properly awake, and as they made their way along, he asked, “What price did they ask of you, anyway? I don’t believe it was to take all the healing magic out of the water.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh come _on._ We spent _all day_ talking about every _possible_ sentence you could _possibly_ say, and you told me you wouldn’t offer a price but negotiate theirs, you can tell me!” Geralt just nudged Roach into moving a little faster, and Jaskier, even as he jogged after, was outstripped as he called, “I’m going to keep asking, you know!”

* * *

He kept his word. He asked that night as they set up camp, he asked the next morning as they set off. He asked as they walked through a town free of monsters and full of distrust, he asked as they found a small copse of trees to camp that night as well.

And every time, Geralt just hmm’d in response. Which had never been enough to make Jaskier stop asking about anything, _especially_ now that he started obnoxiously writing the ballad _at_ Geralt as they travelled. He didn’t know how the story ended, after all, what price the Good Folk demanded of him.

“He travelled to the standing stones, and crossed into the green,” Jaskier sang, “where all the host of faerie folk were dancing there unseen. Through the night he bargained with the Queen and Faeries all–”

“There were no standing stones,” Geralt told him interrupting him as he strummed and walked.

“Oh! Oh! So he _can_ talk about it! And here I thought the price you paid was your memory of the whole damn conversation!” complained Jaskier. “Well, go on, if there weren’t standing stones, then what happened?”

“There was a fairy ring, I stepped into it and waited. And there was no queen or host, just one came to talk.”

Bit by bit, Jaskier teased it out of him, the faerie gentleman who didn’t quite hide what they were, for it was a Witcher come to talk, not a human who might be charmed by their glamour. How they tried their usual tricks; asking to have Geralt’s name, twisting double and triple meanings into every sentence, how they were at first amused by how Geralt just couldn’t be caught out and then grew angry, but trapped by the strange lines of civility that they were bound within.

But when the subject of payment came, Geralt just refused to talk.

“Come _on,_ Geralt! The Good Neighbor who’s furious at you but must treat and bargain, how payment was his to demand after bargaining the whole night, the price paid at dawning, what _was_ it?”

But Geralt did not speak, and thus the ballad remained unfinished.

Jaskier had heard an old, old song once, while at Oxenfurt. A long separated father and son meeting on the battlefield; how the father recognized his son and begged him to set down his weapon, that they might embrace as kin long separated, and how the son refused, snarled that it was a trick that his enemy would play, for everyone knew his father had died honorably a long time ago. How the father mourned as he put forth the challenge; let them fight to the death, and let the victor carry home two sets of armor that day. They fought with spear and then with sword, shields cracking and breaking under the blows until they were fighting with bare swords.

The song was left unfinished, and no one knew who won the day.

Jaskier _hated_ it. He wanted to _know._ Did the son ride home, triumphant in defeating the dishonest soldier and sharing the story of the attempted trick, or did the father ride home, carrying the knowledge he had killed his only son?

And if Geralt’s damn tight lips meant he had to leave this truly, truly engaging ballad unfinished like the damn Song of Hildebrand, he would never forgive him, even if he did love him.

* * *

It was a solid _month_ after the night Geralt treated with the fae that a town famous for its mead production bought Geralt drink after drink after he rid them of the cockatrice that had been plaguing them. Jaskier drank a few draughts himself but most of them went to Geralt as Jaskier was mostly singing, the joy of being free of the monster making people generous not just with drinks but with coin.

When the night ended and the innkeeper threw out anyone who wasn’t spending the night and insisted they take his finest room in thanks, Geralt was just shy of tipsy, where he grew more pliant and tolerant but could shake off the effects of the alcohol if the situation required it. Jaskier, who was in equally a good mood, chatted at him as they settled into the room, and even _joked_ rather than _complained_ , “You know, tonight would have been a perfect night to premiere The Curse of Dalnacreich, if you ever want to tell me how the night ended.”

“Hmm. He asked a steep price,” said Geralt from where he was stretched out on the bed. Jaskier himself froze and slowly turned to stare at him. “There wasn’t much option but to pay it.”

So it was happening. It was finally happening.

“You did,” agreed Jaskier, careful to keep from sounding too excited in case it reminded Geralt just _what_ he was talking about. “What was it? Every memory from before you became a Witcher? The color of the sky?”

Geralt snorted and said, “I don’t need either of those.”

“So it was something you need. Did you forget how to use a crossbow? Or how to write?”

He opened his mouth, paused, and finally said, instead, “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

A lesser man would scream in frustration, Jaskier told himself. And he was not a lesser man.

Something he needed, that was what Jaskier had to work with, now. He would watch Geralt like a _hawk_ , because apparently he’d have to figure it out _himself._

* * *

“You can still skin rabbits, I see.”

“It was not preparing animals, Jaskier.”

“Hey, which star is the North Star?”

“That one. I didn’t lose orienteering.”

“I would have said something about fishing, but if I recall you’ve never been great at that before.”

“Jaskier. Shut up.”

“Was it knowledge of fighting wyverns?”

“Is this _really the time?!_ ”

* * *

“You know, you could just tell me,” pointed out Jaskier after asking if the fae had demanded the knowledge of how to care for one’s hair while washing it for Geralt, resulting in the man _growling_ at him. Like that was going to scare Jaskier anymore. It was actually unfairly attractive, hardly something to make him shut up.

“It has been three months, Jaskier, will you let it go?” asked Geralt, and his voice was actually tired enough that Jaskier considered it, for a moment. Maybe the price had been too much, maybe it was something too personal. He had joked that it was his memories before he became a Witcher, maybe it was something like that.

“Is it really so terrible you can’t tell me?” His voice was soft now, in case it really was. “I can always make something up, for the song. Something dramatic that won’t make people think you’re less competent. The memory of your first kiss, or something.”

Peering down at him, Jaskier was fairly sure he would have to make something up, given the exhausted resignation on Geralt’s face, subtle as a look as that was.

“I’ll make something up,” he promised. “I won’t ask anymore, I promise. Lean forward.”

The soap was rinsed from the silvery locks, and with it the remains of the blood and dirt from the last hunt and days on the road. They fell to silence, Jaskier combing through the clean hair, or at least as close to silence as they got, with Jaskier humming the tune of The Curse of Dalnacreich as he thought of what the price demanded might be, what would inspire pathos but not scorn.

“They demanded the name of the one I love,” Geralt finally said, his voice very soft. “In exchange for removing the enchantment, I would no longer be able to say their name.”

“Oh,” managed Jaskier. A steep price indeed. “At least it wasn’t your memory of them? I’m sorry, that’s not something I should try and look on the bright side of, who – _ugh_ I was just about to ask who it was, I’m clearly not thinking, I’m sorry.”

He was just about set to ramble on, to let the conversation drift literally anywhere else when Geralt spoke again, the sound of his voice cutting through whatever he had been about to attempt to divert them with.

“I thought I…but I can still say your name.”

Jaskier’s hands froze, one gripping the comb until his knuckles went white, the other remaining stiff but gentle, because Geralt’s hair was still in its grasp. “Geralt,” he finally managed, voice a little strained.

“I thought you were the one I loved, but the fae made clear that you’re not. But I wanted to keep you with me anyway. That was selfish. I understand if you want to part ways.”

“Geralt, why the hell would I…I want you to try something. When we got to Dalnacreich, you remember I spoke to the mayor to see if they had record of when the sicknesses began after the water was enchanted? I introduced myself to him by the name I was given at birth, people like him usually respond better to it. I named myself Julian Alfred Pankratz before I ever named myself Jaskier in that town. The Fair Folk are strange and work in roundabout ways. Try calling me by _that_ name.”

Geralt opened his mouth, and only a choking sound came out. As if he was trying to speak but something blocked his being able to do so. He cleared his throat and tried again, to the same result.

Wide golden eyes met Jaskier’s own as Geralt twisted around in the bath to stare at him.

“Hello, dearest,” said Jaskier, because he felt he should say _something_ and nothing else was coming to mind.

“Jaskier…” And there was such _tenderness_ in his voice that Jaskier really had no choice but to kiss him. And now he was able to, because he had magical confirmation that Geralt did, in fact, love him back. A lot of the time, magic drove him mad, but he’d forgive it this one time.

The kiss was awkwardly angled, and to spare Geralt’s neck, Jaskier broke it. “We do have a whole room, there’s places to continue that are a little more comfortable,” he pointed out, and almost immediately Geralt was standing and climbing out of the bath, water sheeting off his body. Jaskier’s protesting noise that he was still sopping wet and getting his own clothes all wet was only half-formed, swallowed as it was by Geralt’s questing kiss.

It was enough to go weak at the knees, having this man pressed so close and kissing him so thoroughly. Eventually, Geralt pulled back, just enough to press any number of smaller, but no less affectionate kisses about his face, from eyelids to the hinge of his jaw. Had this been kept inside him the whole time?

“You’re still far too wet,” he managed. “Dry off before we ruin the bed, love.”

Geralt pulled back at that, and for some reason didn’t immediately go to dry himself off. No, instead he just looped his hands about Jaskier’s arms, didn’t even hold on so much as simply touched them, and searched his face with increasingly worried golden eyes. “Jaskier, you…just because I…you don’t have to.”

He’d laugh, if he didn’t know that doing so would scare Geralt away for good. Instead, Jaskier’s hands reached up to cup Geralt’s face, and held it as gently as he could as he said, “Geralt, my dearest, my sweet Witcher. I have wanted you since I saw you brooding in that corner in Posada, and loved you nearly as long, monster guts and all. Dry yourself off and come to bed.”

It was Jaskier’s habit to tend to his lovers, to make them feel good before he sought his own pleasure. He had never once had anyone complain about his methods (at least, not since he was teenager and still half unsure about his _own_ body, let alone anyone _else’s_ ) but now he was up against Geralt who seemed to have the same instincts.

Gasping beneath the inexorable pleasure that he was _trying_ to reciprocate, it became all he could manage to hold onto Geralt and just…hold on. Let hands calloused not from pen and instruments but from the hard labor of battle caress him and gift him pleasure. There wasn’t much he could do to try and counter them, it was easier to accept them with the intent of later reciprocation.

“Geralt,” he choked, feeling as though he was standing on the beach and watching the water retreat. The great wave wasn’t there yet, but he knew the signs, he knew it was coming, and he’d be swept away unless he got to higher ground _now._ “Geralt, I-I’m, I’m – _Geralt!_ ”

“Jaskier,” breathed Geralt, in recognition and permission and denial all at once. He knew the great wave was coming and that Jaskier would be swept away. He wanted the wave to sweep him away. He would not allow Jaskier to higher ground. Not now. “Jaskier. My lark…”

And that was it. The sound he made was one he didn’t even know the right word for, and he was a poet and knew more words than most. It was ripped from the heart of him, something more animal than human, raw and real and all consuming. He was swept up in the great tidal wave, it crashed him against the rocks and spun him, dazed, into the depths, and when he finally surfaced, he was tucked safely in bed, held by Geralt’s strong arms, and still unable to feel his legs.

“How…where have you been keeping _that?_ ” he managed, still blinking a little dazedly. Geralt chuckled, the sound rare and all the more lovely for it, his hips moving idly to rub against his thigh. “Give me a minute, I’ll return the favor.”

“Take your time, lark,” murmured Geralt, the pet name making Jaskier shiver. He tossed out terms of affection like it was nothing and had had lovers the same, but from Geralt? Somehow that had more power than nobility calling him precious, beloved, adored. “You like being called that.”

“I like being called anything, by you,” corrected Jaskier, turning so they were face to face, a hand tracing down Geralt’s stomach. “I think I’d like most anything, as long as it’s with you.”

“Hmm,” said Geralt, turning from his usual hum of communication into one of pleasure as Jaskier’s hand found its destination. “Jaskier…”

“Yes, love?”

“Jaskier…”

Geralt was habitually a man of few words as it was, and Jaskier wasn’t sure what he had expected, but really he wasn’t surprised that it wasn’t changing now. He seemed happy enough, sighing and murmuring his name, nosing under Jaskier’s chin and into his hair. Those sighs were quickly turning to growls, as Jaskier’s hands sought out and found and immediately exploited every sensitive spot he could reach.

He growled into Jaskier’s throat and trailed his nose to find Jaskier’s mouth, kissing him fully and deeply. It was easy to be lost in it, but any slowing of his hands prompted more growling, warnings not to stop. Really, Jaskier thought, Geralt was very lucky that Jaskier found it to be deeply attractive or else he might be offended, being growled at when he was tending to Geralt so generously.

The growl broke into a sighing whine, dropping his head to bury his nose back under Jaskier’s jaw, happy at whatever he smelled there as he released, a moment there his whole body grew taut before it slackened, and fell into his arms fully.

Jaskier held him gladly, and threaded his fingers through Geralt’s hair, gently picking apart the knots he hadn’t quite managed to comb out before this pleasant interlude began. Holding him and listening to Geralt’s breath calm, Jaskier closed his eyes and let himself grin.

“Geralt?” he murmured, unable to stop smiling.

“Hmm.”

“Say my name again.”

“Jaskier.”

“No, say my name.” Against his throat, Jaskier could _feel_ the choked noise Geralt made. The excised name of his beloved, a silent proof of his love, just as much as the growing discomfort on both their bodies was a physical one. “I love you too.”

“Hmm.” It was a pleased noise, and Jaskier grinned to himself, settling more comfortably. He’d make up some other ending to The Curse of Dalnacreich. This truth was to be theirs and theirs alone.

* * *

Sometimes, in quiet moments, Jaskier heard Geralt making that choking noise that meant he was trying to say his name again. It always made him smile and turn to Geralt with honest delight. It was a forcibly silent way to say _I love you,_ but Jaskier heard it loud and clear every time.


End file.
